On the island downstairs this morning there was a note from Mary for me to check the dryer to see if the load was dry. She had washed Natalie's bedspread, on which our shy cat Leon spends his days, so it had been pretty replete with cat hair and she had dried it on delicate, I guess because those were the instructions on the label. I checked the lint filter, which turned out to be covered with a thick snow -- an amalgam of cat hair and stuffing from the bedspread.
For some strange reason I derive a perverse pleasure from a very full lint filter. I suspect that it is part of my curious workaholism and I appreciate the earnest and diligent efforts made even by the machines of our household.
Our dryer, I'll have you know, is the same one that was there when we took over the house from my mom back in 2009. I don't know how far back beyond that it goes. The door is a little bit broken, some threaded bolt popped out of it sometime during the pandemic and you have to bang on the bottom left corner to get it to close right, but I have perfected that art. Mary blames me for putting hampers of wet laundry on the door when transferring loads from washer to dryer and she may not be wrong, though I'll never admit it. I got mom's new boyfriend Matt (an engineer who likes to fix things) to look at it a month or two back and he was unable to figure it out. In time I'm sure we'll need to get a new one, but not yet.
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